It is… if not!

It is sad
if not pathetic
that I only ever return to my words
when every other shiny thing
fades in the face of distress.

It is sad
if not pathetic
that the only few times I write;
I write grief
and not joy.

It is sad
if not pathetic
that my tears only ever find me
when they weigh heavy enough
to wash away towns.

It is only sad
if not pathetic
that I leave my art to the shadows
that I don’t spin beauty out of light.

-Gauri Walecha

Keep watching this space for a poem interpretation of this post 🙂

I call it ‘Love’

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

When fear came knocking
I scribbled my name on a piece of paper
and called it ‘Love’

There are people
who ask of you to be brave,
who tell you that courage births courage
and that a fearless face is indestructible

And then there are the ones
who hold your hand and ask you to pause
they tell you to let go-
to stop digging knives in the tender of your skin
to stop forcing words out of your dry mouth
to stop giving names to the nameless
I admire these people; 

but more so, I admire myself-
when I keep the knife away
when I let silence be 
when I stop prying into mysteries that are not mine, 

and mostly, 
when I don’t flinch at the idea of touching my bare skin
when I don’t run from my mind like it was plagued 
when I have the heart to hold me-
like I hold him
like I hold them
like I should. 

-Gauri Walecha

I have come to pray again!

To us writers
a blank paper is like a shrine
and our hearts are the offering

We tread lines
bleeding,
our pens lead the way

We write to plead our truths
but human minds are delusional-
to them,
our misery is poetry!

I said too much,
bared too deep-
the world grew tired;

People told me to weep somewhere else
had I not wept enough!
Worse?
I told myself the same!

What happens when you deprive writers of their truth?

When you deprive writers of their truth,
blank pages cease to be their homes-
rather they turn away
like a stranger’s land;
and we?
we become trespassers
violating the sanctity of the written word.

What happens when writers are left homeless?
They vanish,
they become invisible!
Left with no choice
but to see the world walk all over.

Years passed by-
I had hung my craft to starve
the writer in me begged for salvage;

Until one day,
when I found myself at crossroads-
a choice between a pot of gold and a lifetime of salvation;

I chose my truth,
I have come to pray again!

-Gauri Walecha

Lie

Pluck threads from the sky
and weave clouds that rain stardust;

Hold voids captive
decorate them
and sell them in the name of love;

Master disguise
despise the truth;
ditch the moon
reach for the stars;
sing for the ruthless, in the name of ruth-

Lie.

Lie until you know no faith
Lie until the world loses face
Lie until you can no more,

and when you can’t-
Halt
and then never lie again.

-Gauri Walecha

The Haunting

I am not in love anymore;
I don’t look at the dying leaves and think of all the stories they lived through
I don’t try to put a meaning to each fading smile that walks past me
I don’t find salvation in the knowing that all these rain drops that fall against the bare of my skin- I don’t find solace in knowing that these few drops might also be washing down the lips of my next lover;
I am not in love anymore- I am not in love with ‘love’ anymore;

Some people haunt you in flesh-
You see them live each day; you see them tread the same roads as you; you find them falling for the same painting that caught your eye-
those soft brush strokes spoke to you, they spoke to them, but, did they speak the same tongue?

Tongues that speak of culture
Tongues that birth words
Tongues that spill meanings, one syllable at a time;
do they know how powerful they are?
Have they ever paused to hone the power they hold?
and if they have, how is the world still breathing?

Some stories are hauntingly beautiful as they are;
Others? Well, their beauty haunts you once they are gone;

The first kind are called fairy tales;
all that they are, all that they can be, everything to tell can be told in three small words- “Happily ever after”

The other kind? Well, they are tragedies-
they are what ballads are made of, they force poets to pick up their pens and dance with them for hundreds of Suns;
they are the kinds that don’t make us seek love- rather, they make us ruin ourselves in the name of it;

“Lovers- they don’t shy away from doom”, she said. She loved. She fell. She isn’t in love anymore.

– Gauri Walecha

Sombre

Evenings have always been my favorite time of the day. When I tell this to people, they are quick to conclude that I am yet another hopeless romantic, helplessly in love with the Sunsets. Well, not too proud, but I think my love for the evenings runs deeper than just the muted ambers painting a rather clean sky- 

Lately, our world has made it harder for us to truly fall in love with something. In fact, interests have grown in their capacity. They are no longer seen as just the tiny elements that make us feel alive- they are more; they have married pride. We have cleaved into poles; each side debating upon the supremacy of their own beliefs and perspectives. In this case, the no man’s land is rather crowded- full of people who are waiting for someone to win so that they can finally begin with their attempt at trying to fit in with the ‘cooler’ side. Regardless, people think it is brave to dwell in this grey area. As if it was too much of a feat to be able to say- “My mind is nothing but a gullible and impressionable piece of soft clay that I let the society play with.”

From where I see, this scenario has a whole another league of bravery that we fail to recognize- The outcasts! The people who don’t care about the stupid debate altogether. All they care about is the love that they have for their favorite things about the day. This brings me back to where I started- The evenings!

I love the evenings because they feel like home. They are quiet, yet chirpy. They announce homecoming, yet they remind you of a whole part of the day that you haven’t experienced yet. They bring you close to yourself, yet keep you far enough so that you stay excited about the next steps on this journey. 

I love evenings because they don’t hold you back, and yet, they give you enough to hold on to- much like how life is!

The Perfect Harmony

The beat syncs with my heart in perfect harmony. My heart has been dancing to the rhythm of life, finding love in the lovely romance that it is.

It has been long since I last lusted over the life I live- long since I let the wind touch my bare skin- long since I leaned into the curves of my own smiles.

Deep in my heart I know I will rise again. I know, one day I will wake up to find myself gasping at the sight of the myriad of colours, ; I will hug each tree on my way to work.

Until then, I am waiting; staying patient and embracing each emotion under the Sun that chooses to greet me. I am nurturing my garden, trying to find my music- taking life one step at a time-

And one day, just like that- I know I will reach where I am meant to be.

There is power in you!

New on my Instagram blog:- “It is easier to lose track of honesty. Standing in the middle of a noisy room, screams echoing, lies lingering above the heads of lousy strangers; eyes meet, but for whatever brief moment they do, they only find excuses to break away. Such rooms are no less than mazes. They are no less than black holes where justice is served in each corner.” Click here to read more.

There is power in victory; there is power in defeat. There is power in the chaos; there is power in numbing silence. Power is where your attention is.

What catches your eye has the power to pull you, to push you, to change you, and mislead you. What catches your eye has the power to mold you as it pleases.

Afraid? So what do you do now? Walk through life with blinds up your vision? Or, do you let your mind reach places before your eyes do? That is what a daydreamer does!

Daydreamers weave illusions out of thin air. A few of the diligent ones marry those illusions with the reality. When they do so, we tend to call them wizards for the lack of a better term- I prefer to call them wise.

There is power in knowing that there is power in you- there is greatness in using that power to uplift the bullied; there is power in knowing that this enchanting power can blind you against your purpose- there is royalty in standing your ground against that enchantment.

Regardless of your knowledge of it, and regardless of how you use it- there is power in you! Do you have what it takes to hone it?

– Written by Gauri Walecha

Down and Under

There’s only so much that the eye can see;
There’s only so much that the flesh can feel;
There’s only so much-

Cloaked and Veiled-
They believe the truth is rotting away,

They believe they won,
that the night won’t wake;

Down and Under-
They hid bits and pieces of prophecies and gospels,
turning life into a game of treasure hunt,
leaving hints curled around poisoned roses;

They hoped to banish all those who sought,
it was a cheap trick-
They hoped to stage a massacre;

Little did they know,
they were betting on a lost game-
The players had all been long dead!

– Written by Gauri Walecha

Those who seek; The deep blue void

I find myself in the depths. I find myself in the bits and pieces of what illuminates the edges of water. I find myself in the magic. I find myself in the light.⁣
⁣
I forget fear as I go further. What felt like a burden, only seems to be pushing me in the right direction.⁣
⁣
They are thin- the chances. The chances of me making it back to the shore are thin- but maybe, I don’t want to; maybe, we aren’t supposed to.⁣
⁣
What if Atlantis was a story, not so much about a lost city, but a lot more about our lost hearts?⁣
⁣
What it the tale was brought together by a few sly poets, who still take pleasure and laugh at us- they laugh at how foolishly we gush over the thoughts of finding this lost treasure, being the mystic refuge ourselves?⁣
⁣
How long do we wish to play blind for? Shall it remain lost- is that a conscious choice? Is that why we run to banish those who seek?⁣

– By Gauri Walecha